A hint of his original wry, suave smile touched his overbred, unhappy face. “If I had to choose between the two terms, I’d have to pick ‘enemy.’ But that doesn’t mean I think Vic would harm her. Because he wouldn’t.”
I thought about the answer, then said, “It’s my understanding that Mr. Connoly had a mistress in Los Angeles.”
The suave little smile suddenly wearied. “It’s that kind of a milieu, Lieutenant. Everyone wants to stay even with everyone else. The wife takes a lover because the husband’s taken a lover because he thinks his wife took a lover. Which originally she might not’ve. It’s all a little exhausting.”
“It all sounds a little competitive, too.”
The weary smile had sagged to a saddened mockery of itself. “Yes, it’s that, too. The games people play can be pretty devastating, especially for people who can afford to ruin their lives without letting it show.”
I decided not to comment on that either.
“Do you know anything about Carol Connoly’s early life, before she came to San Francisco, or before she met her husband?”
“A little.”
“Would you mind telling me what you know?”
He sighed, shifted in his chair and then languidly recrossed his legs. He frowned to himself for a moment, thinking. Then he said, “Actually, Carol was very reticent about her earlier life. Most of what I picked up was simply random references she dropped from time to time. My impression, though, was that she came from rather, ah, humble origins. She grew up in Tulare, for instance. And Tulare, as you know, is several cultural light-years away from San Francisco.”
“What did her parents do?”
His wry smile seemed pained. “Her father, she once said, was a ‘drunken auto mechanic who couldn’t hold a job.’ And her mother used to work as a saleslady.”
“Are her parents living?”
“I think her mother is living. Her father died, though—violently.”
“How do you mean, ‘violently’?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure. But I gather that it was a rather … unsavory episode, as far as Carol was concerned. I never pressed her for details. She wasn’t the type you pressed … for anything.”
“Does she have any brothers and sisters?”
“A sister, I believe. Still in Tulare.”
“How did Carol meet Mr. Connoly? Did she come to San Francisco to work?”
“No. Carol spent some years in Los Angeles. She had something to do with the movies, I think. Not acting, though. She worked in a talent agency, if I’m not mistaken. That part of her life, of course—after she and Victor met—is more or less common knowledge. As a matter of fact, I happened to meet the man who introduced Victor and Carol. I met him in Los Angeles at a party. Quite by chance.”
“Who was this man, Mr. Phillips?”
“His name is Stanley Wygle. He’s a lawyer—a friend of Victor’s, as I said. Business acquaintances, I think.”
I nodded, jotting down the name. I glanced over my notes, then decided that I had no further questions. Suddenly I very much wanted to go home and phone in an order for a Tuesday night taxicab check of the Broadway-Columbus area. Then I wanted to sleep through the whole afternoon.
I wanted to get out of the jacket with the damp sleeve, too, and wash my hands. I knew that for the next several days I’d often be washing my hands.
10
I SLEPT FROM FOUR in the afternoon until almost six. Then, wryly celebrating Saturday night, I poured myself a tall Coke before calling in for a report on the cab and nightclub check.
Predictably, there’d been no results. A thorough check could take a full day, since I’d only assigned two men to each job. I put a TV dinner in the oven, then showered and changed into a sports coat and slacks while the dinner was cooking. As I ate, I studied the notes I’d made on the Connoly case, then made a list of all the names involved, directly or indirectly:
At Home:
Victor Connoly, Dulcie the Maid, James the Son.
The Dramatists:
Stanley Baldwin, Sue Bryan, Charles Keller and Angie Rayburn (girlfriend).
Friends in Society:
Arch Phillips, Maureen Phillips.
From the Past
Stanley Wygle.
It wasn’t much of a list. If Carol had been murdered, I had three very doubtful suspects: Victor Connoly, who might’ve wanted to save himself alimony; Angie Rayburn, who might have been jealous of Carol’s affair with Keller; and Maureen Phillips, who also might have been jealous.
I found Maureen Phillips’ address, on Green Street. The time was quarter to eight. With luck, I could interview the Phillips woman quickly, check again for results on the cabs and the night clubs, then report myself off duty and catch a late movie at the Metro, just a few blocks from the Green Street address.
As I pressed the bell button, I straightened my tie and cleared my throat. From inside I’d heard music. As I glanced around the grounds of the small townhouse, admiring the floodlit shrubbery and the old, gnarled trees, I was thinking that the house must be especially vulnerable to burglary—or worse. If Maureen Phillips lived there alone, she couldn’t be a nervous female.
I was about to press the button a second time when a peephole in the door opened.
“Yes?” It was a woman’s voice, accented with the unmistakably broad, bored tone of the privileged class.
I showed her the shield, gave her my name and asked to be let inside. As I waited for the door to open, I again straightened my tie.
Maureen Phillips was a dark, striking woman with a good figure, a taut, restless manner and quick, bold eyes. She was wearing a white terry-cloth bathrobe and white slippers. Her hair was damp and hung naturally to her shoulders. She stood in the middle of the narrow entryway, arms folded beneath full, provocative breasts. Obviously, she was waiting for me to state my business, then leave. Behind her, stretched out on the living-room rug, I saw a huge German shepherd, watching me.
“I was dressing, Lieutenant,” she said brusquely. “I hope it’s important.”
I debated offering to come back the next day, but something in her haughty manner stubbornly changed my mind.
“I’m inquiring into the disappearance of Carol Connoly, Mrs. Phillips. I understand that you knew her, and I thought you might be able to help me.”
She frowned, then shrugged, perfectly at her ease. Now a sardonic smile touched her wide, expressive mouth.
“How could I possibly help you, Lieutenant? I haven’t seen Carol for weeks. Months.”
Then, too late, I realized my mistake. Unless I was willing to reveal my knowledge of her husband’s affair with Mrs. Connoly, I had nothing to talk about, no logical pretense for the interview.
“Still, you knew her,” I answered, sparring. “And we’re calling on all her known associates, getting their opinions on whether or not she might’ve voluntarily left San Francisco.”
“Voluntarily? As opposed to what? Involuntarily?”
“Yes. In other words, we’re trying to establish whether she might’ve been the victim of foul play.”
Still with her arms folded, she leaned against the wall. Her dark, ironic eyes appraised me. Malice touched her slow smile as she said, “Carol isn’t the victim type, Lieutenant. Usually it’s vice versa. Almost invariably, in fact.”
“All right, start with that. I’m looking for information. Anything.”
For another sardonic moment her eyes lingered. Then, pushing herself loosely from the wall, she turned back toward the living room, trailed by the German shepherd. “We may as well sit down. Unless you mind interviewing women in bathrobes. I’m going out in an hour or so.”
As I silently followed her, I glanced at my watch. The time was eight-fifteen. I watched her walk to an inlaid walnut chest, serving as a bar.
“Drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“If it’s departmental regulations, I promise not to tell. I always drink while I dress. And I don’t enjoy drinking al
one.”
“It’s not regulations, Mrs. Phillips. It’s preference.”
“Ah.” With her back to me she nodded deeply, mocking approval. “A man with convictions. It goes well with your stern, dark, all-American demeanor, Lieutenant. Not to mention your wide shoulders and tapering torso.”
Watching her as she refilled her glass, assessing her semislack movements and her slightly slurred speech, I wondered how many drinks she’d had, dressing. Then, choosing a small armchair, I looked around the small room, beautifully furnished in French Provincial. So far, I was thinking, the search for Carol Connoly had been an amiable succession of glib conversations in elegant rooms. Signifying, so far, nothing.
She sat on a damask sofa, facing me. She placed her drink on a small marble table, deliberately crossing her legs and arranging her robe at knee and neck. Then, still absently fingering the robe at her throat, she said, “The real reason you’re here, I suspect, is that you’ve discovered my husband and Carol were involved with each other. Is that right?” Her voice was flat; her eyes were opaque, unrevealing. Her loose, casual indifference was suddenly less convincing.
I took a moment to think about it, then decided to say, “That’s right, Mrs. Phillips. I understand, though, that they haven’t seen each other for several months now.”
She nodded, then elaborately shrugged, reaching for her glass and gulping down a third of the stiff drink. She took a cigarette from a silver box. Deliberately I didn’t offer her a light, and briefly, curiously, I wondered why. Then, in the next moment, I discovered the answer: Maureen Phillips resembled Carolyn, my ex-wife. Even their looks were the same, even their small, unconscious mannerisms and voice inflections. There was the same sense of restlessness, the same unyielding, predatory willfulness.
“How long did they … see each other, Mrs. Phillips. Over what period of time?”
“I don’t really know, Lieutenant. If you’re really curious, ask my lawyer. I pay him to keep track of these things.”
“Maybe I will, Mrs. Phillips. Later. Now I’m interested primarily in Mrs. Connoly’s movements on the night she disappeared. Tuesday night. Can you tell me anything that might help?”
She gulped at the drink, then smiled, burlesquing coyness. “At the moment,” she said sotto voce, “I can’t think what I was doing Tuesday night. Will I be able to dress before you take me downtown?”
Deciding not to answer, I returned her smile guardedly. I watched her finish the drink. For a long moment she stared into the depths of the empty glass. Her face was inscrutable, her mouth drawn tight. Then, recovering, she sighed raggedly. With a broad swing of her arm she held up the glass.
“Fix me another one, Lieutenant. I’ve never been questioned by a detective before. Maybe it’ll be more fun than tonight’s gay, glib little party. And please—please join me.”
I got to my feet and took the glass, saying, “I’ll have a Coke. I really don’t drink.” As I made the drinks, I watched Maureen Phillips as she seemed to relax by force of will, slowly leaning back against the white damask cushions of the sofa. But the hand still clutching her robe at the neck had gone knuckle-white.
I placed the drink before her, then returned to my chair.
“Have you talked to my husband?” she asked abruptly.
“Yes.”
“Where was he Tuesday night?”
“Why do you ask that?”
She thought about it, shrugged and then leaned forward to take up her drink. “I ask that,” she said slowly, “because I want to dis—distribute the suspicion. Pass it around. Share the grief, or whatever.” She slightly burped. Her robe, held only by a belt, had opened down the front. Looking away, I wondered whether she’d put anything on underneath.
“There’s no suspicion involved, Mrs. Phillips. In fact, there’s nothing to be suspicious of—no crime, nothing. All we have is a disappearance, which we’re investigating.”
“What’d Arch say?”
I hesitated, then answered, “He couldn’t account for Mrs. Connoly’s disappearance. I discovered that they’d been … friends, and I wanted to talk with him. Then I decided to talk to you.”
She drank again, then moodily set her glass aside, frowning. “My husband,” she said distinctly, “is a lifelong mouse. He has exactly two passions in life: his horse, which he never rides at more than a trot, and our box at the opera, which he now occupies alone. Beyond that, he goes through life with a foolish grin on his face. There are people like that, you know: as long as they smile, they think everything’ll be all right for them. They don’t realize that they’re—they’re—” She shook her head, fighting down some secret, suppressed fury. Then, in a tight voice: “Carol—and people like her—prey on people like Arch.”
“Why?”
“What’d you mean, ‘why’?”
Irritably she took another cigarette from the silver box. This time I got to my feet and lit her cigarette. As I did, our eyes met—and held.
“Why do people prey on people?” I asked quietly. “In my business, you spend a lot of time wondering.”
“I couldn’t tell you. But when people prey on each other, they at least acknowledge each others’ existence.” She drew on her cigarette, then absently flicked her ashes into a small crystal ashtray, moodily studying the gesture. “I used to wish that I could get Arch to fight with me. Just once. I even used to wish he’d hit me. I tried, many times, to make him hit me.” As she said it, she stared sightlessly down at the crystal ashtray, slowly rotating it with a carmine-tipped finger.
I heard myself ironically asking, “Did you ever try hitting him?”
I’d said it deliberately to pique her, as I might have tried to pique Carolyn years ago.
Mirthlessly she laughed, shaking her head. Then, appraisingly, she raised her eyes. “Are you married, Lieutenant?”
“Divorced.”
“How long have you been divorced?”
“A little less than eight years.”
She sipped her drink, staring at me over the rim of her glass. “That’s a long time—a lot of long, lonely nights.”
“Yes. I don’t recommend it.”
“I wouldn’t think,” she said, “that you’d—”
The phone rang. She frowned, banging down her glass on the marble table. Then, as the second ring began, she leaned back, smiling. “The hell with it. I’ve just decided that on Saturday nights I’m not going to answer the phone.”
I got to my feet. “Do you mind if I answer it? The call could be for me.”
She spread her hands, then gestured to the phone, mocking deference. “Be my guest. If it’s a man, tell him you’re my secret lover—the one I’ve been telling him about.”
I got to the phone on the fourth ring.
“Mrs. Phillips’ residence.”
“Frank?” It was Pete Friedman.
“Yes.”
“Are you busy?”
“So-so.”
“All right, I’ll be brief. I’m at home. I don’t know why Communications called me instead of you, except that Levinson is on, and he’s inexperienced. Plus he’s Jewish. Anyhow, I have two bits of late news for you.”
“What are they?”
“Well, first, it seems that at about four o’clock this afternoon a party named Alex Cowperthwaite, age eleven, was taking a hike down in Pacifica, which is, as you know, about fifteen miles south of here on the coast. Alex had his dog with him, whose name happens to be Ralph. And Ralph started to dig near some underbrush beside a small access road off the coast highway. The boy, who was apparently hunting with his BB gun—illegally—sat down for a while and watched his dog digging. After about ten minutes Ralph comes up with a human hand. And the hand, according to San Mateo’s tentative identification, belongs to Carol Connoly. What’d you think of that?”
I was looking at Maureen Phillips. As I’d been listening, she’d finished the drink and then stretched out on the damask sofa, eyes closed. Her slippers were off. Her toes were painted ca
rmine, like her fingernails.
“What’s happening now?” I asked automatically, aware that I was still looking at Maureen Phillips, helplessly. My mouth had gone dry.
“You seem pretty cool, old buddy, considering this one’ll probably hit the front page and the society page.”
“Great. But what’s happening?”
“Well, I sent Carruthers down to the San Mateo coroner’s office, to protect our interests. I also alerted our coroner, the M.E., et cetera, et cetera. We’ll probably get the body tonight, and I’ll have Connoly make the identification first thing tomorrow. I’ll send someone out to notify him tonight. How does that sound?”
“Fine. What about securing the scene?”
“San Mateo is keeping a car there all night. They didn’t suggest we participate, so I didn’t offer. But—” He hesitated. “What do you think?”
“I think we should have someone there. Assuming the identification goes the way you expect it to go.” As I said it, Maureen Phillips stirred. Had she fallen asleep? Or was she—
“I think you’re right. I’ll take care of it. How about us meeting at the office at, say, ten o’clock?”
I was thinking of Captain Kreiger, weekending at Lake Tahoe. Very often he came back from a weekend trip in a sour mood, complaining of a long, tiring drive with noisy children and an enormous, panting English sheepdog who seemed to be constantly upsetting his water dish.
“Let’s make it nine.”
“You’re probably right,” he responded promptly. “Oh, by the way, I almost forgot my second piece of news. Canelli called in while I was talking to Levinson. He thinks he’s got Mrs. Connoly made Tuesday night at a small bar called the Interlude, a block from Columbus and Broadway. Not only that, but the bartender—who was apparently captivated by Mrs. Connoly’s blond good looks—thinks she left his place in a cab.”
“What kind?”
“Canelli didn’t say. But I’ll leave word for him to come down to the office tomorrow. Maybe we can get this thing pulled together.”
“Okay. See you at nine.”
“Right. How’s your end of things going?”
“Not as well as yours.”
The Disappearance (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 8
